May we meet again, Friend
by JemmaLikesStuff
Summary: A one-shot of Arthur's thoughts, after Hamish Sinclair dies. The Veteran. I liked him. I think Arthur admired him and enjoyed his company. I just wanted to write a little something in regard to this mission.


**_ A/N - (Spoilers) Hamish is one of my favorite Strangers in the game. I enjoyed every encounter with him, including his sorrowful last moments. So much so, I gave up the White Arabian I called Artemis and rode Buell until we both died helping John get back to his family. Before that I used my grey and black War Horse called Zeus. I got way too attached to all three. A_****_lthough, after swearing to each one I wouldn't replace them ... that's exactly what I done. So anyway, I wrote this little thing because Hamish deserved better *sobs*_**

* * *

I sit stiffly on the ground next to Hamishes helplessly limp body, staring at the tremendously sized boar, also lifeless, good riddance.

If only we hadn't split up, then maybe my veteran chum would still be shouting abuse at his grumpy stead, Buell.

I won't try to say that I have many friends but I certainly would count Hamish as one of the few. He was a good man and I honestly enjoyed his seemingly sincere company, it was straightforward, unlike everything else right now. Our good old fishing trip will continue to be a highlight in my recent days, or should I say my last days? It was one of the better moments of my shit show of a life anyway. It was relaxing and dare I say it... fun, probably because I had better company than I usually keep.

I fondly remember how happy the old man was when we finally caught the Tyrant on the lake beside his cottage.

* * *

For some reason I am unable to stand. I often walk away from corpses showing little, to no remorse but I am surprised by the pain I feel build up in my chest. Hamishes death seems to physically sink through my now chronically feeble insides, from the lump in my throat right down to my aching gut. The stupid man got himself killed by a goddamn pig and here I am sitting in the dirt, feeling sorry for him. I have really gone soft.

I liked him. That I must admit. He deserved better than to be killed by a thoughtless boar that's for sure, he survived a cannonball for Christ sake.

I will say, at least he died doing something he loved. I sure as hell won't be doing what I love when I die, I will probably be running after Dutch, like I always do. If he does keep on going like this, the whole Van Der Linde Gang will be whipped out within the month, never mind my vanishing life.

I told Hamish briefly about the life I live and yet he didn't send me packing. I am grateful for the way he treated me. Deep down I looked at him as someone I would want to be in another life, if god would ever allow it. He served his time in the Civil War and then got his own land out in the wilderness among the animals, without being poisoned by the coming civilization. I enjoyed experiencing a glimpse of what life could have been with him, hence why I so frequently turned up on his doorstep to take a few hours out of my destruction, to hunt or fish with him.

I am unsure if he pitied me or if he actually liked me but I am surely honored that he put up with me. I shall remember him dearly in my final days, that feel to surely come soon in this god forsaken land.

His last words instructed me to take his horse, Buell.

My heart swells at his last words pairing me with such a beast. I know he didn't have much choice but I think he knew I would look after his Dutch Warmblood and that's exactly what I plan to do so until my dying breath. Not that I have long left. I will need to make proper arrangements for my mouts for when I pass. Perhaps I will leave them with Charles, he is a true animal lover.

A nippy gust of wind awakes me from my bleak thoughts. I blink away the threat of a tear and shakily stand on my now permanently cold feet. I wipe the dust off my chaps and look around for our horses. My Arabian is grazing close by as per usual. I sigh at the thought of putting her back in the stable. She has rode a substantial distant of late, a break will do her the world of good. I feel a twinge in my stomach as I justify the need to adopt my late friends horse.

* * *

Buell, known to be stubborn and well quite frankly a darn right bastard, is a little further out in the distance. Though he isn't hard to spot as his fur is gleaming in the afternoon sun.

I laugh outwardly as I remember first meeting the white haired man and his steed. Buell had bucked him off and took Hamishes wooden leg with him. Ha. I grin as I recall going to retrieve the leg, thinking the man must be a halfwit. However I was wrong, just like I have been wrong about so many things in this darn life.

Only I would willingly adopt and be walking towards a horse, that not once, but twice in my time knowing it, has bucked off it's rider. The later occasion resulting in death. Oh boy. Oh god, maybe I'm the halfwit.

As I continue to walk towards him, I chuckle at what Abigail once told Jack "Horses are uncomfortable in the middle and dangerous at both ends."

Just as I approach Buell, I note, if it were not for him running off with the wooden leg, i would have never had the pleasure of knowing Hamish at all. Perhaps there is some meaning in our day to day actions after all. I grunt as I take a hold of the stallion's reins, maybe he wouldn't be such a bad investment of my time after all.

He stirs but isn't too resistant, much to my surprise.

Maybe he can sense that his old man is dead. I wonder if he knows it was partly his doing?

"Shhhh boy, it's alright."

I lead him haphazardly back over to the dead bodies. Feeling particularly weak today, it is a bit of a struggle lifting Hamish up and to put him on my horses pearly croup.

I feed Buell a sugar cube "We are going to take him home boy." I plan to bury my late friend near his home. It is a lovely place to be at peace. no matter where I bury him, I certainly couldn't just leave him laying out there to be devoured by a pack of wolves come dark.

As I head off back to O'Creagh's Run upon Buell's toned back, I admire his rare Golden Cremello coat. It is mighty fine, how the colour reflects from the horse in the bright rays of daylight. It is enough to compete with the glimmer of opportunity I so often noticed shimmer in Hamishes eyes whilst he was doing sumhin he loved.

* * *

I won't lie, it was a long night digging a hole for the man but I feel better for it, despite my body telling me otherwise. Tired from the laborious burial, I feel it's better to perch on Hamishes porch for the night, not daring to enter his home. The view is breathtaking, I will give you that you old bastard.

I open a bottle of whiskey and drink to the ex army man, I grew rather fond of. "To you, Hamish Sinclair." I take a slug of the brown liquid but nearly hack up a lung as the liqueur clearly no longer agrees with my illness.

"May we meet again, friend."

There is silence apart from the horses tails swatting in the light wind "We will hunt together again soon, in the afterlife."


End file.
